The Song that Dating Taught Me (The Things We Do for Love)

It seems strange now, to remember just how serious I was about the subject of dating, when in was in high school. In our Bible classes, we discussed issues like marriage, divorce, and the general culture we were growing up in. I remember learning a statistic about how much more likely children of divorce were to experience divorce themselves. Learning that really shook me up! Experiencing divorce in adolescence was horrible—and I had no desire to experience it as an adult. Beyond that, I definitely did NOT want to put my kids through that pain.

There was one caveat to those ugly statistics on divorce: children of divorce were less likely to experience divorce in their own marriages if they took the time to educate themselves about healthy relationships and communication. They also needed to make smart decisions about what they wanted/needed in a mate and then enter dating situations with those issues in mind. It all sounds very clinical as I write about it now, but this approach appealed to my high-achieving mindset. I signed up for an elective class, titled “Marriage & the Family”, and drank in all the information I could from the course materials and other things that I was reading. I totally bought into the idea that I could control my heart and find the perfect soul-mate.

If only it were that easy! The combination of naiveté, pride, and hormones made for some turbulent dating experiences. There was a song that was popular just a few years before this, titled The Things We Do For Love. It could have just as easily been the title of my dating years; that was the song my soul was singing. I wanted to be smart, but I craved being loved. The craving to be loved resulted in some poor choices. Afterwards, when I considered those decisions, I was flooded with guilt. How was I ever going to find the perfect Christian husband when I couldn’t make choices that showed I honored and respected myself? My approach to intimacy left me feeling ashamed and worthless. And feeling worthless drove my desire to be loved. And my desire to be loved drove my choices. . .

Sometime during my first year of college, my current very-serious-relationship ended. He broke up with me and I was actually relieved. I had thought we were a forever kind of couple—probably most of our friends from high school did. But I realized that I was tired of doing everything wrong and expecting a happy ending. I remember thinking that I was done with dating—it was time to direct my attention to something where I knew my decisions would be good enough.  It was time to focus on school, get my act together, and grow up. And so, I did.

No dating. Only school. Focused. Driven.

I think that, subconsciously, I believed that if I let up on the pressure to achieve in school, I would have to face the fact that I was a failure at relationships. I was a child of divorce, destined to make the same mistakes myself, unworthy of a truly decent man. God must have smiled as He saw me give up on my plans for the perfect relationship. He knew I had to—in order to make room for His.

In July of 1983, I completed LPN school—at the top of my class. I was so happy that I could get one thing right!  And I had a job already; I was returning to UCA as the School Nurse and Assistant Girl’s Dean. I was beginning to believe I could make good choices and I could be good enough, at least where school and work were concerned.

I had about one month to kill until the school year began, and I decided to use that month to travel to Ohio and visit my daddy. I deserved the break—I had kept my promise to myself. I had focused on school. I hadn’t been on a date in 20 months. And I had a plan for my future.

Little did I know that God was about to put His plan into action and teach me about unconditional love. He wanted to show me that there was someone who would love me—and I didn’t have to do anything but truly love him in return.

But, that’s another story. . .

The Song My Mother Taught Me--Verse Two

While I attended Upper Columbia Academy, learning valuable lessons about hard work and grace, my mom was busy teaching me a new verse in the song we shared. This new song was all about strength and sacrifice; courage and community; but mostly about effort and reward.

Fifteen is such a difficult age for mothers and daughters. There’s so much angst and awkwardness as, step by step, the changing relationship is negotiated. I don’t think I truly appreciated all my mother did for me, and meant to me, until I left the shelter of our home and went away to school. Of course, Mom had taught me how to keep my room clean and do my laundry. I knew how to study and how to goof off. What I didn’t know was how to balance all of that—I didn’t realize just how much structure Mom had added to my life. She had been the safety net I was tightrope walking over, and I hadn’t even realized it.

The best advice Mom gave me about boarding school was this:

“You will get out of the experience whatever you are willing to put into it”.

She explained further:

“Invest in other people and make new friends, and you will have life-long friends; participate in activities and you will learn new things; work hard in your classes and you will have a rich education. But, if you sit in your room all the time, you will only magnify your loneliness.”

I took that advice to heart, and those three years were full of learning and laughter and love that are still with me today.

Boarding school was expensive, so both Mom and I entered into a partnership of sacrifice to make attending possible. I worked the maximum hours each day to pay for part of my school bill. Our income qualified me for student aid, through our local church. My grandmother and siblings also worked as janitors for the church to help with the expenses. Years later, I would learn of the family friends and church members who sent personal donations. It took a community of love and support to make my dream come true.

Still, the greatest sacrifice would come from Mom. There were more chores at home, with me gone, and never enough money. Many days she worked 10-12 hours, at minimum wage, to support all of us. In order to pay my bill, she refinanced her car at least three times. She did without new clothes, needed furnishings, and even basic treats like orange juice for breakfast. The phone bill became a luxury, so she disconnected long distance service—which meant we couldn’t speak on the phone. Instead, I received a letter from her every week, filled with all of the news from my sisters and our friends at church.

Reflecting on that time now, I can’t imagine how she found the time! And when the time for Home Leave came each five weeks, she made that time with me special. We didn’t quarrel when I came home. The time we had was short and precious. It was spent talking and laughing and there was usually music involved. Perhaps being so far apart helped me appreciate all of the things she added to my life. I know that during those years, I was very aware of how much she loved me and how she was willing to do anything to secure my dream for me.

Mom never missed a concert or school presentation, either. Although UCA was 2 hours away, she made the trip in all kinds of weather and could always be found in the audience, just beaming with pride.

My memories of that time are filled with images of love—and it is a strong, courageous, undaunted kind of love. My mother is one of the strongest women I have EVER known! And that is the part of her I admire most and have tried hardest to emulate. Her strength, in the face of overwhelming difficulty and loss, was an inspiration to me, both then and now.

And that lesson she taught me about getting out of life what you put into it—that means more to me with each passing year. I didn’t realize for a few years that her advice applied to more than just boarding school—it applied to all of life. I’m sad that I let my self-absorption, and the desire to push away in my 20s and 30s, obscure this truth.  (For more details, follow this link:  http://sandisings.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-song-my-sister-tried-to-teach-me.html) My own path through life took me away from Mom, in terms of distance. But I let my pride and my fear of not being good enough keep me from telling her how much I needed her; I created emotional distance to match our physical distance. I wanted so much to be as strong and independent as she was, that I lost touch with the need to be vulnerable—especially with her. Perhaps I was afraid that she would see my neediness as a sign of weakness, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. There were moments in the years to come when I would recognize that need, but I would tip-toe through them and around her, instead of sitting down in that moment of need and embracing it.

After years of getting out of our relationship exactly what I was willing to put into it, I’m learning to invest in my relationship with Mom. I’m taking her important life-lesson to heart.  I get it now—it’s about effort and reward. And I’m enjoying putting the time in and reaping the blessing of letting her get to know me better.

The Songs I Learned in High School

The three years I spent at Upper Columbia Academy were among the very best of my life. It wasn’t because it was high school. It was because God led me to that high school. I discovered a lot about myself during those years. I chased my dreams there. I escaped some of my fears there. I learned to appreciate my mom there. I made life-long friends there. And UCA is where I met two men who would change how I saw myself forever.

Zvonimir Hacko was the Choral Director at UCA; my first year was also his first year at the school. Mr. Hacko was from Yugoslavia, and he was very serious when it came to music. He held auditions for everything he did; no one was in his choir just because they wanted to be. He also had a talent for seeing “diamonds-in-the-rough”. I loved to sing, but auditioning for him was a very intimidating experience. He listened to me run through some scales and then asked me to sight-read some sheet music for him. After a few minutes, he turned to me and asked why I wasn’t signed up for vocal lessons. I responded that I only had so much time in my schedule, and I was already taking piano lessons. And that’s when he looked at me and asked the question that would end up defining my years at UCA:

“Do you want to play the piano or do you want to sing?”

Mr. Hacko told me that I had potential—that he could work with my voice and train it to do what it couldn’t yet do. He could teach me not just to sing music, but how to “make music.” I was sold. He spoke to my heart and my heart wanted to sing!

Telling Mom that I was abandoning the piano wasn’t easy, and she wasn’t as sure as I was, but she told me to do what I wanted. I joined choir, took vocal lessons, and practiced daily. I worked hard, because I wanted to be what Mr. Hacko believed I could be.

By my Junior year, I was in Choraliers (the touring choir). By my Senior year, I sang solos with the Men’s Chorus, mixed quartets with other seniors, and even an aria and duet in a German Cantata at St. John’s Cathedral in Spokane, WA. Mr. Hacko’s work ethic played well to my perfectionistic, people-pleasing, high-achiever personality. He taught me that hard work, focus, and good choices could take me to the top of whatever I set my mind to do.

He also taught me how to “make music”. It’s more than memorizing words and notes and performing them flawlessly. You “make music” when you sense the audience, watch the conductor, tune in to your fellow musicians, and make the performance fit the situation. Each time was unique; I loved the concept of music as an ever-evolving work of art. This man forever changed the way I looked at music.

But John Briggs forever changed the way I looked at God.

God brought Mr. Briggs into my life while I was struggling to cope with the feeling of not being “good enough” for my father. He worked as the Guidance Counselor and one of the Bible teachers at UCA. During my Sophomore year, he was on the periphery of my school experience. But then I heard about this great Bible Elective class that he taught each quarter—a sort of seminar class, covering a different book each time. The class was small—intimate, even—and supposedly wasn’t too demanding. I loved the idea of credits that wouldn’t hurt my GPA!

And that’s how God works. He takes our petty personality issues and uses them to show us His message for us.

Through this class, with this incredible man, I learned about appropriate, unconditional love and tenderness. Mr. Briggs was soft-spoken, gentle, almost always smiling, and he always used our relationship to point me to Jesus. He was encouraging, but direct, as he challenged me to expect more of myself in healthy ways—to appreciate my strengths and remember that I didn’t have to be all things to all people. He stressed that I just needed to be me—that my weaknesses were just ways to grow.

I grew close to John and his wife Judy, spending many evenings at their home, and several weekends at their cabin near Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. They were surrogate parents during my time at boarding school. They gently shaped my broken faith and unhealthy performancism and taught me about real grace. They helped me understand that my “good enough” didn’t matter, because I was a child of God; a daughter of the King. They encouraged me to learn and grow without falling into the trap of believing that Jesus would only love me if I was “good enough”.

John Briggs introduced me to the Biblical works of Paul and John—and they are still my favorite parts of the Scriptures. I continued to struggle with a legalistic, demanding view of God, but Mr. Briggs gave me hope. He believed in me because he believed in God. He knew that if I could just see myself the way that Jesus did, then I would never be the same. 

He taught me that “Jesus loves me, this I know” is the most important song to sing. I know he would be so happy to see that, 30-plus years later, I finally understand.

My Secret Song

I sat there quietly, holding that soft molasses cookie in my hand; feeding it to you bite by bite. When I stopped at Starbucks earlier that afternoon, I saw the cookies and remembered how much you always loved the flavor of molasses.

“Why not take Grandpa a treat?” I thought. So, I found myself breaking off pieces and gently placing them in your mouth, bite by bite, while you sat there—immobilized by Alzheimer’s Disease—unable to feed yourself and unable to recognize me. The same thoughts kept running through my mind.

“Do you remember that day, Grandpa? Do you remember the shame and the guilt that settled on me that day? Is it fair that you get to retreat into mental oblivion, while I play the scene over and over in my mind? It’s a broken record of shame and guilt always playing in the background like a sick theme song—my secret song.”

I remember everything about that day. We had just returned to your house from a driving lesson. I had my permit and was eager to get my license. Mom was busy, so you offered to teach me to drive. I remember the warm summer air and the breeze moving through the kitchen; the smell of food in the air; the sound of your work boots, as you walked down the short hall from the back door to where I sat at the table, reading something. I remember I was wearing tennis shoes, shorts, and a light blue baby-doll style blouse. My blouse was loose-fitting, so it was easy for you to reach beneath it and run your hand up to cup my breast; your other hand was on my shoulder—holding me in my seat. I remember your whiskers against my cheek and the feel of your breath as you spoke in a low voice next to my ear.

“You’ve grown up into such a nice big girl, haven’t you Sandy?”

My thoughts were paralyzed. My voice was choked. I could barely take in shallow breaths. In a few minutes, it was over and I was alone in the kitchen again.

“Surely that hadn’t just happened. My own grandfather didn’t just. . .”

But, I knew it was true. Somehow, this had happened to me and now I had to figure out how to handle it. I pulled myself together. I reminded myself that I was strong and smart. I developed my plan for how to handle this new reality. My plan couldn’t involve Mom. She already had enough to worry about. I was tough. I could handle this on my own.

I knew he and I could never be alone together again. Ever. Definitely no more driving lessons. I rationalized that having a driving license was overrated. (It would be 3 more years before I would get my license, at the age of 18.) I would always make sure that someone else was with us. If Grandpa entered a room that I was in alone, I would leave and go to where there were other people. Besides, I would be leaving for boarding school soon, so this should be pretty easy to deal with.  I could handle this on my own.

And I did. I don’t think anything like that ever happened to me again. But, sometimes I do wonder if I just decided to not remember.

I also became acutely aware that these parts of my body—my breasts—were a source of attraction to boys and men. My posture suffered, as I stooped in an unconscious effort to diminish others’ awareness of that part of me. I grew to hate what guys seemed to love. I could see it in their eyes when they spoke to me, but didn’t make eye contact with me.

Not long after that day, I decided to change the way I spelled my name from “Sandy” to “Sandi”. I might not be able to take back that day, but I could move forward as a new me.

But Sandi could not escape Sandy’s secret song. The song of my worthlessness resonated in my heart—the unshakable belief that I didn’t deserve to be treated better. It clung to my soul for years—until I took control back through forgiveness.

So there I sat. Feeding a cookie to the grandfather I forgave many years before that day. The grandfather who never acknowledged what he did—even when confronted a few years later.

This man stole my soul’s simple song of innocence and my trust, and replaced it with a secret song—a song of shame.

This man didn’t even know who I was anymore.

This man got to forget, while I could still remember.

And I found myself wishing that it was the one thing he couldn’t forget, either. That it was the one thought that tormented him.

I could forgive, but I couldn’t forget.  And, I hoped he couldn’t either.